Shadow and the Soul
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: "Santana kept staring. 'There are so many things wrong with that sentence,' she deadpanned." Brittany broke Santana's heart. Santana's going to break her fist in someone's face. And Quinn might just snap and kill them both.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1 of 2 (possibly 3?). Sort of a spiritual successor to _Rhythm and Attitude_, but it's not a required prerequisite :) Rated for some serious language.

So, everyone else has been writing their BrItTaNa Angst!stories lately. And I decided that I want me one too. But first, an apology for being so flaky lately; I sprained my arm a few weeks ago, and typing has been somewhat difficult since then. It's actually taken about five minutes just to type this paragraph, so you can imagine how slow the actual story is going…

As usual, I own nothing. Brittana can totally sign my bandaged arm like a cast, though.

* * *

How was it that every time she was pissed at Brittany, she ended up topless and drenched in sweat?

And not even in the fun way.

She'd learned the hard way last time (waking up with killer leg cramps was a bitch) that running for two hours was a stupid way to burn off her anger. But punching things for two hours? _That_ she was built for. As soon as she had gotten home from school—shaving five minutes off her commute; who knew she wasted so much freaking time at stop signs?—she had tossed her backpack on the floor and gone straight to the basement: down to her workout clothes, two toned boxing gloves, and a heavy bag chained to the ceiling. She'd even had one of those annoying clocks that buzzed every three minutes, but she'd smashed it ages ago.

What, like she was supposed to press the fucking off switch with giant leather gloves strapped to her hands?

Puck had told her once that Berry had an elliptical at her house, and would tape her goals and dreams to the wall in front of it. Santana didn't know how looking at "Finn Hudson's Dick" written on fancy stationary would inspire fuck all, but she had to admit that Berry might be onto something there. Boxing was so much more cathartic when she pretended she was hitting people who pissed her off instead of seventy pounds of vinyl and filler.

And her creative writing teacher was totally full of shit when she said that Santana was too lazy to fully develop her sensory imagination—she had practically felt Artie's stupid glasses shattering under the weight of her right cross. Over and over and over.

Yanking off a glove, she took an impatient swipe at her forehead with her hand wrap. It came back damper than it already was, and she muttered a string of curses under her breath. Facial sweat was practically an invitation for acne, and there was no freaking way she was letting a single zit mar her complexion.

Especially now that her body was even more smokin' than before. It had been tough, trying to maintain her awesome bod' without the hellacious pre-dawn torture sessions Coach Sylvester put them through, not to mention the probably-poisonous but no doubt effective Master Cleanse. Still, working out every day and throwing up a couple times a week (which was so not a big deal, since she was pretty sure her body was rejecting solid food after a couple of years of bypassing the whole 'digestion' thing) had kept the whole thing from blowing up. And anyway, the two pounds she'd gained had gone straight to her ass, which actually made her look even hotter.

Another drop of sweat dripped from her hairline. It was kind of a bitter silver lining that if she and Britt kept having fights the way they did, she was going to be hot enough to land herself on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Grabbing her towel off of its hook on the wall and mopping herself up, she tilted her head from side to side, listening with a twisted sort of enjoyment as her joints cracked. Yeah, she was a goddamn smoking hot badass. Who the hell wanted a relationship anyway? She was young, and awesome, and had an entire weekend to drink herself into oblivion before she had to see anyone she didn't want to see again.

So fucking there, Britt Britt.

She paused, hearing footsteps upstairs. Her little sister was the only other one home, and she was supposed to be in her room, doing her homework—the only truly well behaved one of the three Lopez children. Also, the smartest of the three of them. Far too smart to barge in on Santana when she was getting her violent fury on. And yet, someone with a death wish was opening the door and coming down.

Santana whipped around in time to see Quinn walking gingerly down the stairs, heels clacking with every step. A distinct contrast to Santana's disheveled sexiness, Quinn had changed out of the blouse she'd worn to school and into a dress.

Always a dress. Q was one strand of pearls away from a role in _Pleasantville, _or maybe a future career as a Betty Crocker spokeswoman or the Avon lady. Seriously—girl was such a throwback to the 1950's, Santana could even detect a faint chicken smell.

She didn't say anything, choosing instead to stare coldly at Quinn. She had kind of figured that Quinn would show up at some point, but she had been hoping her friend/rival would wait until tomorrow. She had a way of pushing Santana's buttons, and a round of passive aggressive banter was so not what she needed right now.

She sighed inwardly. She was hitting the shower and the liquor cabinet in half an hour, whether Queen Bee was there or not. And hopefully she wouldn't be—Santana didn't feel like giving her a free show.

"Consuela let me in," Quinn volunteered—and while not accounting for her sister's judgment, at least put to rest any worries Santana may have had about having to spend the weekend changing the locks or something. "Good for her," she deadpanned back, "she can let you right back out again." In a show of ignoring the other girl—something she knew Quinn desperately hated—Santana turned away and began unwrapping her hands. And yeah, she wasn't looking, but she _just knew_ that Quinn was raising an eyebrow behind her back.

"You weren't in Glee today," she accused, making Santana scoff. "Skipped," she explained offhandedly. "So?"

Quinn sputtered, making Santana smile darkly. The faster Quinn got worked up, the faster she'd flounce out and leave her the hell alone.

"So, everyone was worried! It's a week before Regionals, and Rachel—"

"Rachel," Santana cut her off, spinning around to glare nastily, "can suck it. Maybe it'll loosen her up a bit." She looked Quinn's printed dress up and down. "And if you keep taking fashion tips from her, we can't be friends," she added.

Quinn snorted. "Yeah, keep up the insults," she shot back. "This is a really great bonding experience for me." This time Santana's smile was almost real—the snark was starting to come out, which meant that the conversation could potentially get interesting. Quinn was staring around the basement like she'd never seen it before. "What happened to Tony's band equipment?" she asked, and Santana remembered that it had been almost a year since she, Quinn and Brittany had hung out in the basement, messing with her brother's drum set and giving each other makeovers.

She scowled, covering up the sudden twinge that memory gave her. "Dad set it up for me a few months ago," she answered, putting in effort to sound nonchalant (and well aware of the irony). "He said I needed something to get my aggro out, because he was really tired of having to do pro-bono facial reconstruction on all the bitches I've beaten down this year."

Quinn's mouth quirked slightly, and Santana could tell she was trying not to smile.

But of course, Quinn had to ruin the moment like the fun-spoiler she was. "Why don't you join the wrestling team?" she asked dryly. "Maybe Lauren can give you a few pointers on beating people down."

Ok. She was so done. Bitch had officially outstayed her welcome. Putting on her sweetest smile, she batted her eyelashes at Quinn. "Well gee, princess," she said, syrupy tone dazzling, "this has been great. But I'm sure you have plans with Finn. Or Puck. Or is it Sam this week? Sorry, it's just so hard keeping track of who you're cockteasing at any given moment."

Quinn pursed her lips, a stunt she only pulled when she was feeling especially prudish. So only every three hours or so, really. "You say that like you haven't had sex with all of them," she scowled. "Not to mention half the school."

Santana felt her eyes narrowing. Frenemy or not, some days she seriously wanted to rip that self-righteous smirk right off of Quinn's face. It wasn't quite as annoying as Berry's, but it was a damn close second. "Oh, get off your high horse, Tonto," she sneered. "Yeah, I've hooked up with them, and plenty more. Maybe that makes me a slut, but at least I'm upfront about it. Curling iron, my Puerto Rican ass." She inhaled again, wrinkling her nose. "And for God's sake, Fabray, _why _do you smell like _chicken?_"

Glaring, Quinn reached into her purse and pulled out a Wendy's bag. "Spicy chicken, no mayo," she sniffed. "No fries either, I don't like you that much."

Still annoyed, Santana didn't respond. Quinn must have seen her fingers twitch reflexively, though, because she rolled her eyes and tossed her the sandwich. She caught it easily, unwrapping it and pulling the chicken and lettuce out of the bun.

Just because she had feelings now didn't mean she was about to start eating carbs.

Tearing into the meat with her teeth—she was freakin' hungry, ok?—she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, bag discarded on the ground beside her. Quinn raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I hope you know how disgusting it is to watch you eat," she complained in a long suffering tone. Santana gave her the finger and kept eating. Quinn scoffed. "You could at least put a shirt on."

Santana chewed, adopting a thoughtful expression as she pretended to consider it. Finally, she swallowed. "Nope," she decided, and took another bite.

Ok, so maybe what she'd said to Brittany about feelings and anger and shit was true. But sometimes, being a bitch just because felt kinda good.

Quinn made a face, but let it go. And Santana would have chalked it up as a win, except for what happened next:

"We need to talk about Brittany," Quinn declared. Santana immediately lost her appetite. "We really don't," she replied, voice steely. "I have nothing to say about her, and if you know what's good for you, you'll leave right now before my fist slips."

If Quinn was intimidated by her, honestly kinda empty, threat, she didn't show it. "Brittany told me what happened today," she explained, "and that really, really sucks for you. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Santana glowered at Quinn. "I'm fine," she growled, "I'm a fucking peach. Drop it." Falling off the top of the Cheerio's pyramid so many times must have killed some vital brain cells, though, because Quinn clearly couldn't take a hint. "For what it's worth, I think she was wrong," she continued, seemingly impervious to the death rays Santana was mentally shooting her in the face with. "You finally did what she's always wanted you to do, and she chooses Artie? I mean, he's nice and all, but he's—"

"A jackass who gets off on demeaning women, and dresses like a senile grandpa, and treats Brittany like she's four and doesn't even try to understand her, and who will never realize that he's a dorky white suburban boy whose mommy ties his shoes for him, not Kanye, and who's gonna grow up and work in a cubicle sucking up to a boss who hates him, and is even more painful to watch 'rapping' than Mr. Schue?"

Quinn paused, clearly surprised by Santana's outburst. Luckily for her, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut about it. "I was going to say, he's not you," she finally answered.

"Fuck you, Fabray," Santana replied without venom, slightly mollified. She dropped the rest of her pulverized chicken into the wrapper. "And too right, he's not," she added, voice suddenly acidic.

As if. Maybe he'd be sort of okay looking if he dressed better and got some contacts and did something with his hair besides that stupid pudding-bowl haircut, but she was still a million times hotter than he was. And she _loved_ Brittany, way more than he ever could. Loved her enough to _talk about her feelings_ the way Britt had wanted her to. Santana Lopez did not Talk About Feelings. Ever. Unless those feelings were anger, annoyance, or general misanthropy.

Lost in her moody thoughts, she hadn't realized that Quinn was still staring at her until she looked up. "Stop being creepy," she snapped automatically.

Quinn didn't flinch. "Stop being pathetic," she fired back. "Brittany chose Artie over you. So why is he still breathing? Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Santana asked, getting angry again. "Beg her to break up with him? I don't beg. If she wants me, she can dump his ass, but I'm Santana fucking Lopez, and I'm not anybody's freaking second choice, and I'm not waiting around for Mr Roboto's sloppy seconds, okay?"

"Seriously?" Quinn looked at her, exasperated. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to you, and you're going to let Artie have her because of your stupid _pride_?" She shook her head, looking away. "I always thought that out of the two of you, Brittany was the stupid one."

"Shut up! Just shut up about her." If Santana was angry before, she was pissed now. And standing up, when did that happen? "Brittany's not stupid. Yeah, she does a lot of stupid things, and gets confused a lot, and maybe Mensa's not going to try and recruit her anytime soon. But she's not stupid."

Santana ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. Wow, that whole deep breathing and counting to ten thing her anger management counselor preached was really not helping. "She's not stupid, and she's a better friend than you," she said coolly, glowering venomously across the room at Quinn. "She'd never call you names, and she's always had my back no matter what, even when everyone else thinks I'm a bitch or a whore or whatever."

"Except for now," Quinn said quietly. "You poured your heart out, and she chose someone else. It's the first time she's ever chosen anyone over you, right after you admit that you care. And you can't help but feel like it's your fault, that if you kept pretending you were invincible, maybe she would have picked you."

She paused. "Or maybe, you feel that if the only person who gets you in every way can abandon you like that, you really must be as terrible as everyone thinks."

Santana wasn't sure when the tears had started, but they had: wet, salty trails down her face. A sudden flash of Brittany—_"Maybe try rocking back and forth? People do that in movies"_—and suddenly she was sobbing. And Quinn was looking at her with huge sympathetic eyes and Fuck her, why did she have come into her house and throw it all in her face right when she'd convinced herself that she was _fine_ and Fuck Artie for getting in between her and Britt and for his stupid white boy gangster pretention and Fuck Brittany for making her fall in love with her and turning her into this weepy blubbering mess.

Quinn was reaching for her, trying to pull her into a hug, and Santana shoved blindly and scampered back until her spine hit the wall, not wanting anyone or anything to touch her. Finally showing some semblance of a brain, Quinn backed off, holding her hands up in the air defensively. Face in her hands, Santana heard rather than saw Quinn punch a few buttons on her cell phone. Breathing deeply, she tried to get her crying under control as Quinn talked on the phone:

"It's me, I'm at Santana's. We need you to come over, and bring some alcohol."

"In what way was that an invitation for a threesome? And don't you have a girlfriend now?"

"Because she's upset and she's our friend, and maybe I don't approve, but she really needs to get drunk right now and you have a tendency to use alcohol to show people you care."

"No she won't."

"You'll be fine, wear a jock strap if you're so concerned."

"You are such a—fine, I'll ask her. Santana, do you promise not to punch him in the groin in a blinding fit of Chick Rage if he comes over? No? Good. That's settled. Half an hour, Puck."

This time when Quinn came over, Santana let her put an arm around her shoulders.

Feeling sucked. God, she couldn't wait to get drunk.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 of 2. Sort of a spiritual successor to _Rhythm and Attitude_, but it's not a required prerequisite :) Rated for some serious language.

Hello! I probably could have/should have finished this sooner, but I hit a bit of a stumbling block and decided to work through it by getting my Blaine on. And on the seventh day, there was air travel :/

I don't own much, including Glee. Someday…nah, I'll still be poor.

* * *

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

What—she'd been doing two people's homework for almost three years, she could freaking read, okay?

But seriously, it had been a week of highs and lows:

Low: Waking up on her basement floor, smelling like stale beer and Cheetos.

High: Stealing Quinn's phone and deleting the footage the bitch had taken of her sobbing into Puck's shoulder. Replacing it with footage of Q drooling on Puck's leg.

Low: Brittany having the sheer idiotic nerve to ask her if she'd done something wrong. High: _Troutymouth_. She didn't care what Mr. Rogers said—it was a fucking awesome song.

Low: Washing 20 lbs of dirt out of her hair and clothes. Brushing her teeth twenty times, because she was pretty sure she'd swallowed a worm.

High: Tina's sweet baby grand, flat screen tv, and ability to steer around topics Santana wanted to avoid. She was definitely in the running for Replacement Best Friend.

High: Winning at Regionals. Hellz yeah.

High: Catching the King of the Fairies and the Gay Hogwarts lead singer sucking face backstage, if only because watching Babyface Porcelain sputter and turn red like that was _frigging hilarious._ His uniformed boytoy had totally tried to play it off like nothing had happened, even offering congratulations and his hand for Santana to shake, like a tool.

Which was so not happening—it may have been dark backstage, but she had seen _exactly _where that hand had been, and she was so not interested in that secondhand gay action.

* * *

So: another performance, another win, another slight hangover. At least this time she had woken up alone and in her own bed, with an aspirin and a glass of OJ ready and waiting on the nightstand. A shower and some cereal had done wonders, and she was almost feeling human when, unexpectedly, the doorbell rang. A glance at the kitchen clock confirmed that it was only 9:30, which was so too early for anyone she knew and liked to possibly be visiting.

Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone else at home to answer the door and tell whomever it was to fuck off. After a second ring, Santana moodily stalked down the hall to the front door, fully intending to treat the luckless idiot ringing her bell to a full invectiva en Español. Running a hand through her hair and putting on her meanest Before Noon Bitchface, she threw open the door.

And stared.

Brittany was standing on the front porch, holding an assortment of gardening tools and wearing a pair of unfortunate, dirt-smeared overalls that hadn't seen the light of day since her latest holiday-related misconception (and on a related note, Santana would never be able to watch Groundhog Day again). She looked slightly apprehensive, but gave Santana a determined smile.

"Quinn said I was making you regrass," she explained, holding up a long-handled edger. "I didn't know what she was talking about, so I brought a bush trimmer and a hoe."

Santana kept staring. "There are so many things wrong with that sentence," she deadpanned. Brittany's smile flickered, then died entirely. Whatever she was doing here, Santana wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't planned anything beyond simply arriving, expecting Santana to dictate the encounter. Well, screw her if she thought Santana was doing shit before 10am on a weekend. Or at all. If Brittany wanted to talk, she could talk; Santana wasn't going to help her.

The silence totally wasn't uncomfortable in the slightest.

Brittany was still looking at her.

_God dammit._

"Carmela will kill you if you wreck her lawn," she said flatly, nodding at Brittany's hoe.

God, there was really no way to make that _not _sound skeezy.

Brittany looked unconcerned by the threat, and as well she might. Santana's stepmother paid the minimum acceptable amount of attention to her husband's kids, but never seemed particularly interested in any of their friends or classmates—with the sole exception of Brittany, whom she adored in her sanitized, devoid-of-emotional-attachment sort of way. She'd be more likely to blame Santana for letting Brittany anywhere near the landscaping than blame Britt for any resulting destruction.

It was really kind of annoying how often Santana ended up taking the fall for Brittany, even with people who were pretty much contractually obligated to love her better.

Brittany merely blinked, completely oblivious to Santana's inner seething. "Can I come in?" she asked, scuffing a foot on the porch.

Santana didn't budge from the doorway. "I'm kinda busy," she said tonelessly, keeping her arms folded across her chest. It was such a lie; she was painfully un-busy. It figured that the second she was off the Cheerios (and consequently exempt from grueling weekend practices) the TiVo would start malfunctioning. Irony was a cruel motherfucker.

Brittany frowned at her, looking confused. "Busy with what? We don't have any weekend practices and your tv still isn't working."

Shit.

Of course Britt would pick _now_ to start retaining information when Santana was ranting.

Santana dug her fingernails into the side of her arm. "Fine, so I'm not busy," she conceded, letting her annoyance show. "Maybe I just don't want to talk to you." Brittany's face fell, and Santana fought her instinctual reaction to step forward and comfort her. After all, this was Brittany's fault, and it wasn't Santana's job to clean up after her messes anymore. She wasn't going to react, just because B got her feelings hurt.

Until she looked up, and Santana saw that her eyes were sparkling with tears.

"San, I just want to talk to you," she pleaded. "Just for a few minutes, and then I'll go away if you want me to. Please." Wisely, she didn't try to touch Santana, but stayed rooted to the spot, looking smaller than usual and shaking slightly with unshed tears.

Santana felt her throat close over. She wanted to be pissed, like, _really _wanted it—she couldn't stand it when Britt cried, and Brittany knew it. And if she were a little smarter or more devious, Santana would feel totally vindicated in slamming the door in her face for being such a manipulative bitch. But…Brittany wasn't smarter, or devious, and probably couldn't spell 'manipulation' if both of their lives depended on it.

So whatever she might want to do, Santana just couldn't get pissed. Which just left…every other emotion. _Damn it._

She briefly closed her eyes, wishing she hadn't bothered to get out of bed. When she opened them, she and Brittany were still standing there. So much for miracles.

She opened the door a little wider. "Five minutes," she muttered reluctantly. "And I reserve the option to throw you out after two minutes if I get bored." Without waiting for Brittany, but knowing she'd follow, she turned around and walked back into the house. Going back to the kitchen and grabbing a pair of Diet Cokes out of the fridge, she placed them on the table and dropped wearily into her usual spot, listening as Britt left her shoes by the front door (Carmela's rule) and padded barefoot down the hall.

* * *

Brittany's first minute was almost completely silent, but for the ticking of the clock and the fizz of the soda after Santana popped first her own can, then Brittany's. Santana sipped her drink, her expression tight as she grew increasingly irritated. What the hell had Brittany come over for, if she wasn't even going to say anything?

Well, the rules had changed—this time, she really wasn't going to help her out. She could talk or not talk, but Santana wasn't giving her shit if she didn't.

Finally, Brittany exhaled sharply. "I miss you," she said quietly, using her fingertip to trace the ring of condensation her drink had left on the table. Santana gazed at her evenly. Whether the moisture on the table was sufficiently distracting, or whether she was just scared, Brittany was avoiding her eyes.

"I miss being your friend," Brittany continued. "I love you, and you said you love me, even if you don't want to say it anymore. I just—I don't understand why we can't be friends anymore."

Santana bit the inside of her lip—hard—to keep from screaming. "You don't love me," she spat. "If you really loved me, you wouldn't need to ask me that question."

Little bitter? Oh yeah. She was owning bitter.

Brittany was near tears again. "But I do love you," she argued. "So, so much, and I want to be around you—I can't _not _be around you. I don't underst—"

"You _never _understand!" Santana cut her off harshly, slamming the table with her hand and making everything on it rattle dangerously. "You _never_ understand, and I'm constantly _explaining_ things to you that you should just _know_. You want me to tell you I love you? I freaking love you—fine. Why do I need to say it, when you should just know? I beat people up when they're mean to you, and scared the school board into banning fish in the cafeteria after Finding Nemo made you cry, and I switch out your homemade cookies with ones I freaking made so you don't get food poisoning, and I came over at four in the morning last month to kill a spider in _your little sister's room because you were too scared to do it._"

Santana paused, taking deep breaths and trying to get her anger under control before she completely lost it. Finally, she looked back up at Brittany, who had tears streaming down her face.

"You wouldn't ask to be my friend if you really loved me," she finished. "Because you would _know _how much I can't be around you."

Another minute went by. Santana sat, face stony and expressionless as Brittany wiped her own face with her sleeve.

"I'm sorry," Brittany offered finally, sadly. "I don't get stuff the way you do, I'm not smart like you. And you don't think that I love you, but I do. And I know that we can fix this, because I love you, and you love me."

Santana laughed hollowly. "It doesn't matter," she said, voice toneless. Brittany looked up, meeting Santana's dark, dead eyes for the first time. Her expression was frozen, a mixture of hope, dread, and confusion, and Santana sighed inwardly even as she pulled the trigger:

"I love you and you love me. But it doesn't matter. And you're the one who chose to make it that way. Because it didn't mean enough to you to do anything about it."

Santana looked down at the table, deliberately ignoring Brittany as she leaned across the table, trying to meet her gaze. "But Santana, I—"

"Five minutes," Santana cut her off.

She continued to stare at the table, focusing on the uneven striping of the wood grain. Its meaningless lack of pattern. Stupid, really. How many trees had to die for a stupid, slightly creaky old table?

By the time she looked back up ten minutes later, Brittany had gone.

* * *

Mondays sucked. This Santana knew to be true.

Mondays sucked even more when she had Quinn Fabray, Queen of the Righteous Morality Gestapo, glaring daggers at her. At her own locker.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?" she demanded rudely, holding up the seven pages of Santana's spidery handwriting that Santana had shoved under her door the night before. Santana rolled her eyes. "Sorry, I forgot that you can't read," she snapped, twisting the combination lock until the door sprung open. "Must be why you have so much trouble interpreting the label on your Midol."

Quinn was undeterred. "This is all the stuff _you_ do," she pointed out, voice hard. "Why do I need all of this—Brittany's schedule, list of allergies…'Locations Selling Pineapples'?"

"Once a week, in her fish tank," Santana recited dully. "Otherwise they start getting moldy and gross, and the fish will get sick. And you really don't want to drive out to the exotic pets store in Columbus to replace Patrick if he dies—it smells and there's bird shit everywhere."

Quinn was still staring incredulously. Santana sighed. People were so stupid. "I'm taking a break," she explained slowly, eyes narrowed meanly. "I'm tired of this shit, and it's someone else's turn to pick up the slack."

Quinn glared right back. "You mean you're pissed at Brittany for choosing someone else, so you're going to bail on her out of spite," she snarled. When Santana didn't answer, her glare shifted into something resembling contempt.

Santana would have been impressed, if it hadn't been directed at her.

"You know what?" Quinn asked. "I thought that this one was Brittany's fault, and that you were in the right for once. But if you're going to treat her the way you treat everyone else—which is horribly, by the way—then maybe she was right to walk away."

Clutching Santana's papers to her chest, Quinn stalked off. The second she turned the corner, Santana slammed her locker door with all her might, smiling darkly as the people around her jumped in surprise, dropping purses and books.

She was late for math. And there was a test. God, Mondays sucked. If she ran, though, she could make it on time.

Bending over to snatch her bag off of the floor, she noticed a picture that had fallen out of her locker and fluttered to the floor. It was a candid snapshot, taken of her and Brittany a year before. They had gotten bored at a football game, and had stolen Puck's shoulder pads. In the picture, Santana was adjusting them on Brittany's shoulders as Brittany imitated Puck, hulking out her biceps and patting an imaginary mohawk.

They looked so happy.

The trash can was right there.

The bell rang. Swearing, Santana slipped the picture into her bag and ran down the hall.


End file.
